The personal storm of John Watson
by TheBritishBourbon
Summary: After a car crash, Sherlock is left injured and in hospital in a coma. John is there with him through everything.
1. Chapter 1

**This is the first chapter of a fic I am writing with no plan of where it was going, this was just something that i wanted to explore with the characters (Coming from that bit of my brain that goes: yeah let's be mean to Sherlock! :P)**

**So, I hope you like it and...enjoy!**

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><p>John had been at the surgery when the call came through. The call that would seemingly stop his heart and send it into overdrive at the same time. The storm that was battling on outside his office window was now mirrored in him; the thunder reverberating in his head, the lightning cracking in his mind every time the reality of the call came to the surface of his terror. John had fought in the desert, watched his best friend die, and had been almost blown apart by a bomb more times than a man should be in life. But when the words Sherlock Holmes, hospital, and car crash came to his ears, terror took its hold, and John lost himself.<p>

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><p>Reason and clear mindedness surfaced in the cab he was taking to the hospital, emerging out of the spattering rain hitting the window of the cab. A cab. That was apparently what Sherlock had been in when the lorry had come careening into its side, the tempest destroying any sight the lorry driver could have had of the cab. The thought that John was now travelling in what, oh god, might be Sherlock's death carriage made John sick.<p>

His hands and curled and uncurled into fists on his lap he traveled on through the storm, on through the uncaring populous of London, to face his own private tempest.

John's hands clenched and unclenched in his lap as he sat on the plastic chair of the waiting room, its hardness reflecting the cold, hollow feeling settling in his chest, that premature feeling that Sherlock was already gone. His was, of course, irrational; Sherlock was in surgery, which was all he knew. Yet, maybe that was what made it worse; John was so used to being on the other side of this; the ignorance was killing him.

It was not long, or maybe it was; John's sense of time was as wild as the storm that raged on outside, until a bustling ball of worried energy appeared in the form of Mary. Her face was without make-up, making her pure fear even more evident.

Her smell was intoxicatingly pleasant as John embraced her tightly, letting some of his worry seep out as their love over-powered it, and when they broke away his mind felt more clear than it had in hours.

"How is he?" Mary asked, brushing away and invisible nothing from John's jacket.

John shook his head, "I don't know. He's been in surgery for about…" he looked at the clock, the element of time returned to him, "Four hours. So, you know, it's probably not..." he trailed off, swallowing tersely.

"John, this is Sherlock; you know how strong he is." Mary reminded him, looking deep into his eyes.

"Yeah," he muttered. That was brave of her; bringing up memories of the last time Sherlock had been in hospital; when she had shot him. _'No, no John. That's a; in the past. Stop, you have forgiven her.'_

He took a deep breath and resumed his waiting, this time with the soft hand of his wife in his won, harbouring him to the bay as the storm raged on.

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><p>It was another three hours until they were allowed to see Sherlock, before they even had news of him. In that time Mycroft himself had arrived, wearing a look of strong discomfort, the closest, John thought, he could get to worry.<p>

They were led to intensive care, the doctor giving Sherlock's condition report to Mycroft officially, but really to John and Mary also, who followed on not even a metre behind. Sherlock had not been lucky. The lorry had managed to pin him into the cab, and it had taken the fire service too long to cut him out, in which time he had bled out profusely, and had already coded once on the table. His left arm had suffered severely; something had sliced into it deeply. The same was to be found on his left side. One of his legs was broken in two places, and other minor injuries, such as bruises and cuts were abound. His head had suffered a harsh, but not fatal, blow. Sherlock had a concussion as a result. All this, though, did not mean anything to John compared to the doctor's final, felling blow. Comatose. Sherlock was comatose. A _coma_. The storm in John's mind raged on once again.

Mycroft, of course, had been the first into Sherlock's private room to see him, but he insisted John come in when he felt ready, being Sherlock's emergency contact and best friend. Of course John had given him a few minutes, partly so he could be alone with his younger brother and partly because he had to prepare himself. Mary said she would wait outside until he needed her. John nodded numbly, taking harsh breaths through his nose before, finally, he entered.

Like the current of the sea, the constant beep of the heart monitor lulled John's senses into focussing on one thing; Sherlock. Sherlock, who lay completely still on the bed, there was not even the twitching of eyelids or fingers to give John any sign he was still alive. Only the rise and fall of his chest and the rhythmic beeping was John's saviour. John had, being a army doctor, seen far more horrific injuries, but the sight of his best friend lying so pale, oxygen prongs in his nose, stitches on his forehead, left arm strapped to his chest in a sling, and his left leg elevated slightly in its protective cast seemed to him as though there was nothing worse. And the fact that Sherlock was in a _coma_, an unassisted _coma_, made him want to cry and throw up at the same time.

John barely noticed the presence of Mycroft, who stood stiffly and pale with unprecedented shock on one side of the bed, as he approached Sherlock's frozen form. He grabbed a pale hand, careful not to pull out the IV line, and squeezed it tight, his heart plummeting as he felt how cold his friend was.

"Sherlock," his voice came out as a croak. He cleared it and tried again, "Sherlock, I'm so sorry this happened. I'm sorry I wasn't there with you, but I'm here now." John knew that most of the time coma patients could hear things around them, and he also knew Sherlock would probably be rolling his eyes in his mind. Then again, Sherlock might not be aware of anything; he was receiving morphine for the pain, which would make it harder for Sherlock to hear John. Still, John was doing this for himself as well.

"Sherlock, you have to wake up from this, okay? I don't care if your bloody mind palace might be more interesting than reality; you need to wake up. It's your birthday soon, you can't miss that." John knew Sherlock couldn't care less about his birthday, probably didn't even know how old he would be, but John had to give the man something to motivate him to wake, even if it looked like Sherlock had no idea he was there, talking to him, as still and unmoving as before.

John took a deep breath, bracing himself with his other hand against the bed. Mycroft watched him the whole time, swallowing every so often. "I'll be here okay? For as long as I'm able to be, I will be here with you. Or Mary will, or Mrs Hudson. And I'm sure Molly will probably want to visit. How does that sound, hmm?" his friend's pale face remained lax, none of the usual air of self-righteousness around him, just a bruised, sunken faced nothingness. John squeezed his hand one more time before placing it gently back on the bed covers.

He turned to faced Mycroft then, face ashen and eyes suspiciously wet. Sherlock's older brother looked him over with that knowing look, something like a cross between gratitude and jealously in his eyes. "You meant what you said, I presume? You will be here when you can?"

John nodded stiffly, straightening his back, "Of course. We might even be lucky; the git might wake up soon and save us all the worry." _'Although I highly doubt Sherlock would be that un-dramatic'_

Mycroft snorted slightly, "That would be rather too convenient, I think, John…..and anyway, the doctor said there was no way of knowing when Sherlock would wake up." Mycroft looked down at his little brother then, and for the first time John saw pure, clear worry on his face. The iceman was melting.

"Thank you, John. I am eternally grateful for your continued support to my brother, even after all these years."

At Mycroft's words, the violent storm in John's mind abated somewhat, beating back and forth like the current of Sherlock's beating heart.

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><p><strong>Please review etc! it is really very much appreciated :)<strong>

**The next chapter should be up soon! (She says..!)**

**Happy Reading! TheBritishBourbon x**


	2. Chapter 2

**Viola, Chapter Two is here! I am really pleased with the response this has gotten and would like to say thank you to everyone who's read or reviewed etc. **

**I hope this lives up to expectations; I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up, or what it is about, but...hopefully it will be soon enough!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

And so John was there for Sherlock, was there until he couldn't be there anymore; until visiting hours were over or he was coaxed away by Mary to come home and get some sleep, so he could come back the next day and start his day of sitting next to Sherlock all over again. Sometimes he would read to him, newspapers or novels which Sherlock would have no interest in whatsoever, but had no choice in what was read to him, seeing as he was in a coma. Or sometimes John would just talk to him about everyday life and old cases, trying to draw Sherlock out of his mind. Sometimes he would just sit there and hold his hand for hours, listening as the storm outside battled on, leaves slapping against Sherlock's window every now and then, frightening John from his own private tempest of thoughts.

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><p>Mrs Hudson visited the day after Sherlock's accident; John was there with her, having taken leave off work for the near future, claiming he had family issues (which, by hell, he did have). She had brought with her a bunch of garishly pink roses, intending for them to add colour to Sherlock's stark hospital room.<p>

The moment John opened the door to Sherlock's room she welled up, hand going to her mouth and swallowing her sob.

"Oh, John," She whispered, "he looks… horrendous."

John put a hand on her shoulder as they came to stand next to the bed, its occupant as still and pale as the day before. "I'm sure he'd be flattered to hear you say that, Mrs H." his attempt at trying to lighten the situation was futile.

Mrs Hudson sniffed, giving him a half-reprimanding, half-thankful look before sitting down hesitantly on the side of the bed, hip at a comfortable angle for her, and placing one hand on Sherlock's forehead, running her hand through his untamed hair.

"Hello, dear." She said softly, "John told me all about your dreadful accident….oh I wish it had been someone else but you, Sherlock! I know it sounds horrible, but really…you don't deserve this." The older woman was sobbing now, handbag and flowers forgotten on the bedside table as she continued to stroke Sherlock's hair whilst the detective lay still on the bed, unresponsive to Mrs Hudson's lament.

John stood watching the scene, the rain outside the windows adding to the depressing drama he was witness to. He felt like crying. He hardly ever felt like crying. Trust Sherlock to bring him to that. He approached the bedside table, putting the roses carefully in the spare vase on the top. He watched discreetly out the corner of his eye as Mrs Hudson's tears receded and he quickly pulled a tissue out from her handbag, passing it to her with a warm look.

"Thank you, dear." She muttered, turning away from Sherlock and dabbing at her eyes.

"He'll be alright, Mrs H." John tried to reassure her. And himself. "His readings are alright for his condition, and he will hopefully make a full recovery from his injuries, but…"

She stared up at him with sadness. "You don't know when he will wake up?"

John shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

There was no real reason why Sherlock was in a coma, the drugs would have kept him under for a large while but this deep sleep was unassisted by medicine, and the doctor had told John it was only a matter of waiting.

"You have to wake up, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson whispered, turning back to Sherlock and grabbing his hand this time. "We all need you so much. John needs you."

John swallowed tightly. Behind him, thunder clapped and lightening flashed, and the rain fell even heavier.

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><p>Sherlock didn't receive a great number of visitors over the first week of his comatose state, but those who did visit came regularly. Greg would appear every two days, and Molly visited twice, hands twisting in her lap and she stared at Sherlock, not looking scared of his condition, but more….unsettled. It must have been strange seeing someone she fixated on for so long lying slack and pale in a hospital bed, stitches on his forehead and bruises fading, instead of being the energetic man she knew him to be. Mycroft appeared only once since the day of the accident; his job too time-consuming to allow him more time with his brother. Although, John doubted Sherlock would really have wanted Mycroft sitting with him while he slept.<p>

John was there almost all the time, only taking breaks to go to the cafeteria for a cardboard tasting meal, home to sleep, or braving it outside in the ever raging storm for a bit of fresh air. There were literally rain clouds over John's head.

Mary was as supportive as ever, offering to sit with Sherlock if John needed a break, though he was reluctant to. It wasn't that he didn't trust Mary with Sherlock, even after all the Magnussen business, it was much more that he felt Sherlock was as safe as he could be when John was there. His best friend was there to protect him, help him through this mess, when he wasn't there before; to stop all this from happening.

It was exactly a week after the accident when Sherlock's birthday came around. John was surprised to realise he had no idea how old the detective was, and neither did Lestrade, apparently, when the detective inspector visited in his lunch break.

"John," was his greeting after pushing open the door, breaking John from his daydream, the beeping monitor lulling him into a dazed state. John nodded, peering at Sherlock's readings; no change.

"Happy Birthday, Sherlock." Greg said, taking the seat John willingly evicted, needing to stretch his legs. "Must suck to be in hospital on your birthday, hey? Though I doubt you'd even gave a-" Lestrade broke off, a faint hearted laugh leaving his lips. John smiled from the corner of the room; Lestrade looked at him with a shrug. John agreed, Sherlock really didn't care about his birthday; _'Why is the inevitable aging of my body a cause for celebration, John?'_

Lestrade didn't stay for long, only stopping to wish Sherlock a happy birthday and update John on the enquiry into Sherlock's accident; he had been kind enough to request that he look into it personally, seeing as he knew the victim. Well, all of Scotland Yard knew the victim.

"It looks like the lorry driver may have pulled out thinking the road was clear, not knowing that the cab was there; the weather would have made it extremely difficult to see, and the driver has told us his eyesight isn't exactly spectacular. It's as straight forward as you thought, John; just a pure accident."

"Any news on the cab driver?" John asked, coming forward to stand by Lestrade's chair. He realised, without guilt, that he had no idea what had happened to the other occupant of the cab.

"He's sustained some serious injuries, but should recover with time."

John nodded, sadly, looking toward Sherlock in the bed. It made him thunder inside with a selfish, uncaring anger that his best friend was the only one to be left so….completely damaged by the accident. The one thing that appeased him was that Sherlock had not suffered some great injury to his head, so that if-_when_ he woke up, he would still be the Sherlock everyone knew and….well, mostly despised (but that didn't matter, John would be happier than one hundred people put together.)

Greg coughed heartily before rising from his seat with a loud scrape of the chair legs on linoleum tiles.

"Well, mate, Many Happy Returns and all that. Wake up and maybe we can have a proper party, yeah? Get you drunk again. That would be a great night for us all."

John laughed breathlessly as he sat on the edge of the bed and shook Greg's hand, so very grateful for his joking demeanour; it lightened the mood somewhat, easing off the clouds in John's mind.

Greg patted Sherlock lightly on the shoulder before leaving, careful of his injuries. Sherlock did not respond, but Lestrade composed himself well and left looking stronger than John had felt over the past week. John grabbed his best friend's hand once more, looking down at him from his position on the edge of the bed.

"Happy Birthday, mate." His words were as sincere as he could make them, and, for a moment, the sun broke through the clouds outside, and a harsh yet rejuvenating light illuminated the room.

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><p>Mycroft visited in the late afternoon, when the sun had once again disappeared behind its cloudy prison and the grey sky turned to a murky black. Mrs Hudson had been and gone, bringing with her this time vibrant yellow roses and a homemade chocolate cake, which John shared with her, Mary and Molly, when they had both visited at the end of their shifts. All three women had left soon after, Mary with a kiss to John's cheek and then to Sherlock's, Molly with a squeeze of Sherlock's hand and Mrs Hudson with a maternal hand to Sherlock's forehead, caressing it lightly.<p>

John had been reading Sherlock the newspaper when Mycroft came striding into the room without warning, making John jump and turn in his chair, visibly relaxing when he realised who it was.

"I wondered if you'd be coming today. I owe myself five pounds." He remarked as Mycroft strode round to the other side of the bed, umbrella tapping the ground, and pulled up a chair, seating himself across from John and laughing softly at John's quip.

"My brother is in hospital in a coma, John, and it is his anniversary of birth, it seemed an ample time for me to visit."

John snorted softly, a smile gracing his lips. "Right."

The two sat in a silence only interrupted by the beeping if the heart monitor and the slashing of rain drops against the window, the two sounds clashing terribly. Mycroft watched his brother's still and sleeping face for a while, face as stone-like and impassive as ever, though John could see a similar storm to his own lurking in the ice man's eyes. The doctors had pulled the stitches on Sherlock's forehead the other day, along with the ones on his left arm and side, and Mycroft observed the forming scar by the hairline with keen interest. _'Probably deducing something from it'_, John thought.

"How old actually is he today?" John suddenly asked, remembering his ignorance towards the fact.

Mycroft sat up a little in his chair. "He is Thirty Six." He said matter of factly, and John was a little surprised at how sure Mycroft was, how he hadn't even hesitated. Thirty six. John was only a few years older than him, and the fact made him feel even more protective of Sherlock, and he grabbed his best friend's hand for a moment, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles. Mycroft watched with a mixture of sadness and approval on his face. It looked strange on his haughty face.

"I'll give you some time alone with him." John said a moment later, placing Sherlock's hand back on the bed and rising from his chair, massaging his shoulder as he left for the cafeteria.

When the door shut behind John, Mycroft was once again left with the only the company of the heart monitor and the rain to break his silence. He sighed as he contemplated his little brother lying slack and still in the bed. In a weird sentimental way of feeling he'd hardly experienced before, he felt sadness creep into his calculating mind when he saw his brother's bruises and the dark shadows under his eyes and the oxygen prongs in his nose.

He had never been once for physical affection, feeling much more comfortable watching John give his brother the physical stimulus that would help him come out of this. But now, in this moment, when he was alone and Sherlock was, hopefully, not aware he was doing so, he grabbed his brother's hand and held it tightly, if a little awkwardly. _'Oh lord, he's most likely laughing at me internally,_' Mycroft thought with bitter mirth.

Well, in revenge, he thought it suiting Sherlock got a large surprise for his birthday. He had been in this coma for a week now, and Mycroft knew that this was never a good thing, even though he had full confidence in his Brother's recovery. Still, he knew it was time his parents were told, and that they should visit.

"Happy Birthday, brother mine." He said, smiling. Ah yes, annoying Sherlock. Now that was a much more comfortable action.

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><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed this chapter, please review etc. (P.S. I don't even know if 'bitter mirth' is a thing!)<strong>

**Happy Reading! TheBritishBourbon x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, guess that I forgot Mary and John have a child at this point so I've attempted to incorporate that but I think it's a bit messy, but please tell me what you think! (I also haven't mentioned the whole Moriarty thing from the end of Series Three, so I might see if I can get it into later chapters, but for now...it's not important!)**

**Anyway, Happy Halloween and enjoy!**

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><p>John felt he was being submerged, the rain clouds in his mind constantly on downpour, the ever present nagging worry, like a moth fluttering around his brain, increased in tempo as the week-milestone passed and Sherlock's chances of waking dropped considerably. No one, not even the doctors at the hospital, knew why Sherlock was comatose. They had given him an MRI scan the day after his birthday, but the results were inconclusive. John had sighed, sinking into the chair next to Sherlock's bed, staring at his best friend with half-annoyance, and half-desperation. <em>God<em>, even he hadn't realised how much he missed Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock was right there next to him, lying on the bed, but there was almost nothing to him. None of his personality; his haughtiness, his self-confidence, his…._Sherlock-ness_. He didn't even twitch. Didn't stir when the nurses shaved him, and didn't rouse when they changed his sheets. It was odd; even though John had seen many a coma patient before, he had never thought Sherlock would achieve such stillness. He really wished he hadn't.

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><p>The Holmes parents came on a dreary Tuesday afternoon into the second week of Sherlock's coma. John had been stretching by the window, and swung round speedily when the door opened, arms dropping and shoving his jumper down in embarrassment from where it had risen up.<p>

"John! Oh, it's lovely to see you dear!" Mrs Holmes came bustling in, preying on John, who came forward and kissed her cheek, his own cheeks a little red.

"Mrs Holmes, Mr Holmes," He turned to Sherlock's father, who gave him a weak smile and shook his hand just in the way Sherlock did.

"Oh, John, thank you so much for being here with him, Mycroft's told us you've hardly left!" Mrs Holmes had proceeded to the bedside of her youngest son, gasping slightly and sitting down on the edge facing Sherlock, while Mr Holmes stood at the end of the bed, grasping the rail tightly with both hands and staring at his son with a tender and sorrowful look.

"Well, I didn't want him to be…."

"Alone." Mrs Holmes said quietly, looking up at John despondently, one hand on Sherlock's arm and the other in his hair, carding it with her fingers in soft circles.

John just coughed and nodded. Mrs Holmes beamed at him, while Mr Holmes continued to stare at his son's sleeping form, somewhat hypnotised by it. The worry of the two parents was palpable, settling like clouds in the room just how the ones settled in John's mind. The whole experience was suffocating, and John thought it best to leave them with Sherlock in privacy.

He tried backing out slowly, not wanting to attract attention to himself as Sherlock's parents focussed solely on their son, Mr Holmes's right hand now resting on Sherlock's foot, squeezing his toes tightly, while Mrs Holmes fussed around like a storm herself, flaky mannerisms coming through as she straightened Sherlock's bed covers, assessed the stitches and bandage on his arm and delicately traced the scar on his forehead.

"Oh, Sherlock, you silly boy, look at your hair!" She exclaimed as John reached the door, smiling faintly at the sight of Sherlock's mother trying to flatten his best friend's unruly hair. "It makes you look unkempt, _young man_!"

Mr Holmes huffed, smiling softly at his wife. "It's always been that way, dear."

The situation was so endearing that the rainclouds seemed to disperse from the room for a moment, and John's head felt clearer than it had for days.

He sucked in a breath, opening the door and backing out slowly. "I'm just going to go to the cafeteria so you can have some time with him," he announced.

Mr Holmes looked up long enough to give John a grateful look, his wife now straightening the tape on Sherlock's cheek keeping the oxygen prongs in place. "Thank you, John." He paused, "Really, we're very grateful."

"Oh, I wish Mycroft had told us sooner about this dreadful mess!" Mrs Holmes exclaimed, finally satisfied Sherlock's comfort was up to her standards. "He's outside the room by the way, John, if you wanted to have a word."

John internally scoffed, _'Just one word from Mycroft? That would be the day.'_

"Great. Thanks." He said out aloud, leaving the Holmes parents alone with their youngest son.

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><p>Just like Mrs Holmes had said, Mycroft was stood right outside Sherlock's private room, umbrella idly balanced in his hands and his haughty head held high. He calmly turned to John as he closed the door shut behind him, regarding him with a look as piercing as Sherlock's.<p>

"John," he greeted, "Let us go to the cafeteria, there are some matters I must discuss with you." He started walking without giving John a choice, and, reluctantly and with a sigh and a straightening of the shoulders, the shorter man followed.

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><p>"How are <em>you<em>, John?" Mycroft asked as soon as they were sat down at an uncomfortable plastic table on uncomfortable plastic chairs, vile coffee in Styrofoam cups placed in front of them.

John frowned at this question, wondering if he's heard right. "_Me_? I'm…..fine."

Mycroft gave a look that obviously said _'I know you're just saying that.'_

"What?" John asked, sighing. He really didn't need this from Mycroft, not now.

"The only places you've been in the past week and a two days is this hospital and yours and Mary's residence. Your shoulder is feeling somewhat uncomfortable and you haven't slept well for a long time, a combination of worry for my brother, and the baby. How is little…?"

"Elizabeth." John answered numbly, a little taken aback at Mycroft's bluntness. _'But what did I expect?'_ "She's well, yeah, she's…" he coughed, sitting up a little.

Mycroft never took his eyes off him. "And Mrs Watson? I'm sure it must be upsetting for her not seeing you very often; it seems you spend almost all day here, and only return to your home when the nurses insist on your leaving for the night."

John could feel storm clouds brewing in his mind once again, this time a spattering of anger shooting through them like oncoming lightening, ready to strike the elder Holmes brother.

"Mary is much more honourable than that, Mycroft. She doesn't mind my being here with Sherlock one bit. And you seemed pretty happy to let me stay with him until he wakes nine days ago, Mycroft. Why this sudden interest in my affairs?"

Mycroft didn't as much as flinch. "I am merely seeking after your welfare since my brother is not able to, John. I'm sure Sherlock would give me a thorough dressing down if he knew I was letting you run yourself down for him."

John was once again taken aback, not quite sure if Mycroft's reason was genuine. He knew Mycroft cared, _of course_ he did, but that he would bother himself with others for Sherlock's sake….John was too tired for this.

"Your concern and generosity is touching, Mycroft, but I assure you Mary and I are coping very well at the moment with all of….this," he waved his hand in the air to emphasise the greatness of the current situation, "Elizabeth goes to Mrs Hudson when Mary has to work, and Mary doesn't mind looking after Elizabeth in the evenings. She prefers her mother anyway." John tried a joke, but it went unnoticed by Mycroft.

"But do you not miss spending more time with your daughter, John?"

John opened his mouth to speak, looking like a goldfish as he did so. Mycroft smirked slightly, though John had no idea why. "Of course I do…." He managed to stutter out finally, the lightening doubling in his mind at Mycroft's suggestion that he didn't miss _his own daughter_. God he wished he could bring Elizabeth with him sometimes, hold her in his arms and feel her utter solidness and _existence_. Maybe he could one day_._ "I'm just making sure she has her godfather when she needs him." he answered with finality, and Mycroft seemed satisfied, nodding his head in agreement, expression unreadable and taking a sip of his coffee. John followed.

"Thank you, John. I apologise for my little interrogation but I had to make sure you'd be on board with what I have to suggest next."

John narrowed his eyes in suspicion, placing his cup back on the table and crossing his arms in front of his chest, indicating for Mycroft to continue.

"I have been told by Sherlock's doctor that there is no reason for my brother's comatose state, not physically anyway. Mentally, however, it is possible there might be some damage."

John felt himself pale, rain clouds freezing up with shock, snow now clouding his mind for a change. "Oh god, do you mean…?"

Mycroft suddenly looked slightly alarmed. "Oh, good lord, no, no, I did not mean he may be brain damaged; the MRI scan would have picked up on that."

John shook himself, suddenly feeling very silly. _'I knew that, I saw the readings myself…god I need to sleep.' _He scolded himself for thinking Mycroft had this superior and godlike knowledge on matters because of his bleeding great intellect.

"Yeah, of course." He said hoarsely.

Mycroft leaned on the table, steepling his hands under his chin. "I'm suggesting that Sherlock may be stuck inside his _'mind palace'_."

John raised his eyebrows at that, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward in his chair. "_What?_"

"Sherlock's mind, like mine, is a complex thing. Sometimes things can get jumbled; memories or facts. What I am saying is that the impact of the crash may have caused him to….slip and fall, shall we say? Fall into his mind palace, where he is lost, and cannot get out unless given help to find his way through his mind."

John nodded, trying to take in this information. He knew of people being stuck in their minds before, but Sherlock seemed to be so in control of his Mind Palace, always giving it maintenance; it was strange to think he may be 'stuck' in something of his own creation.

"But….how do we…draw him out?" John asked, suddenly feeling a determination bursting through his clouds, lightening transforming into sun beams of hope.

"That, John, is up to you." Mycroft replied, looking knowledgeable and with full confidence at John. It was rather stress inducing.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that you might just be the key to getting Sherlock back; you and your….._blog._"

John made an 'O' of realisation, nodding once. "Right okay, so you want me to…?"

"To do whatever you think will bring Sherlock out of this, John. After all, you are his closest friend, and _shockingly _prone to sentiment. You'll think of something."

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><p>When John returned to Sherlock's room, feeling somewhat awkward from his conversation with Mycroft, he opened the door quietly, not wanting to disturb Sherlock's parents if they wanted privacy.<p>

"That was when we bought you Redbeard, _lord_ knows we didn't have an inkling what trouble you and that dog would cause, but you needed someone." Mrs Holmes was speaking, sat on the left side of the bed whilst her husband sat on the right, stroking her hand over Sherlock's cheek. They were both smiling sadly down at their son, who lay still and unresponsive between them.

"We thought he would make you happier, he did for a bit, but…." Mrs Holmes trailed off, and Mr Holmes reached over a squeezed her vacant hand.

John didn't have a clue what they were talking about, but the situation seemed very…...familial. Therefore he closed the door with a light _'click'_, feeling the sudden need to go and see his own family; Mary and Elizabeth, leaving Sherlock with the love of others for just one day.

**Please review etc. and thank you for reading, I'm delighted at the response for my story! **

**Happy Reading! TheBritishBourbon x**


	4. Chapter 4

**I am so sorry about the wait, I have been swamped with work! but thank you so much for all the followers, reviewers, favourit-ers (?!) on this story, and for reading it! It now has an actual plot when I thought it was just gonna be this small story, but there you go!**

**hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**Disclaimer: the quotes from the blog come from the Blog of Doctor John H Watson (the actual one), they're not mine :)**

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><p>He hadn't been in this room before, or, if he had, he certainly couldn't remember it. It was exceedingly dark and void, making it extremely boring. And dull, he couldn't forget dull. But it was also very unnerving.<p>

It was illogical, highly odd: how could he have never been in this room if it was _his_ mind palace? And why did he feel so fatigued? Why was there a constant pulsing pain running through him? What had happened?

It was rather hard for him to delve deep into his mind palace when he was, in fact, already in it, in an unknown room that gave him no respite from the all consuming darkness. He couldn't even discern how large it was, or where the door was, or if there even was a door.

Sherlock took in a deep breath, wincing slightly at how much it hurt. Oh god, everything hurt; his arms, his legs, his torso. His head was _pounding_. He gasped, mental breaths coming fast and rough. What the hell was happening?

Time was not relative in his mind palace, he wasn't sure what was going on in the external world, and how long he had been trapped inside this dark abyss. He had tried, of course, to find the door, and the walls, but his footsteps led him to nothing. His shouts lost in the thick treacle darkness. This room in his mind was completely empty. Was this what it was like being Anderson? He couldn't fathom why he was here, he couldn't think past the pounding in his head, and trying to keep control was a battle he was losing to the darkness, fear finally hitting him as he was left helpless to the situation. He sank to his knees, lying down to cope with the pain in his body. He was so tired…maybe if he rested for a moment more he would have more energy to find a way out later…..

"_' __And yeah, he is probably most likely definitely mad. But, he knows a couple of nice restaurants so he's not all bad,'_ Well, you can tell I had absolutely no idea what was to come!"

Sherlock's head shot up, the pounding increasing but forgotten past his curiosity. That was John. Definitely John.

"' _Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'_ Ah, I remember when that insulted you. I'm still not sorry."

John. Again. Talking to someone. To him?

"You'd better bloody be listening to me, Sherlock, cause I feel like a right twit every time a nurse walks in on me reading my own work."

Yes, John was definitely talking to him. And reading him his…blog?

"_' __He thinks he's found himself an arch-enemy.'_ Who would've known how much trouble that bastard would cause for us, eh?"

Oh yes, that was definitely John's blog.

_'__Oh john, thank you,_' he thought, smile gracing his lips as he struggled to his feet, pained groan issuing from his lips; this gave him something to work with, some way to work out what had happened to him.

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><p>Mycroft's words had added to the torrent that was wreaking havoc on John's mind, and the sharp guttural feeling of desperation tortured him constantly. The knowledge that apparently <em>he<em> could do something to bring Sherlock out of this now almost two-week coma was a burden that brought the rain down ever harder. Mycroft had suggested the blog, and John had felt like a complete idiot reading out his own words to his comatose friend, having no idea whether Sherlock could hear him or not. He didn't so much as twitch as John read him their first case, hoping this might instil some wakefulness in Sherlock, but no, Sherlock just had to be a difficult git and remain laying there, pale as ever, a slight fever running from the wound in his side, which the doctors had discovered looking slightly red and weepy the morning after Sherlock's parents' visit. The rain in John's mind had beaten harshly against his eardrums at the news, and the wind outside the hospital had shaken the windows viciously, making John feel trapped in his microcosm of despair.

It seemed that the reading of the blog wasn't doing anything to drag Sherlock out of his coma, and John's despair finally came to paramount on a blustery Friday afternoon in the second week, when Mary had come for a visit, bringing with her Elizabeth.

"It just feels like nothing is helping," he lamented to his wife, bouncing his daughter up and down on his lap lightly. Elizabeth made little gurgles of pleasure at the action.

Mary looked down at Sherlock whilst John was speaking; the sleeping man positioned in the middle of them, with Mary sat by the left side of the bed and John the right. "Maybe he can't hear you?" she suggested, "I just mean to say, you can never know with coma patients: some can, some can't." She added quickly, when John gave her a look that clearly said _'__thanks for the kind words of support.' _

"Hmm." John said, mind drifting, trying to think of any other ways in which he could release Sherlock from this prison of sleep. He had read almost all of his blog posts, not including his pre-Sherlock's return, post- Sherlock's death posts, feeling talking about Sherlock being dead would not be the best subject to bring up for both of them.

On his lap, Elizabeth squirmed and reached out towards Sherlock on the bed, as if wondering why her godfather was so still, when all she normally saw of him was a fast-moving, bell-staff coated ball of energy. John peered down at his daughter curiously, when she appeared determined to get to Sherlock.

"John, be careful she doesn't catch any hospital germs." Mary warned as he perched himself on the edge of Sherlock's bed, allowing Elizabeth in his arms to reach out and touch Sherlock's hair. She had always liked it, clamping her podgy little hands down on the curly strands whenever Sherlock, _always _reluctantly, picked her up. Now however, the little girl looked confused as to why her 'Uncle Sherlock' wasn't reacting back, and she made a small groan of anguish.

"She won't, Mary, he's sweating because of his fever; it's perfectly sterile in here." John replied, watching his daughter with concern. "She doesn't understand why he's not reacting to her." John muttered, as Sherlock just continued lying there; face looking slightly waxen, a thin sheen of sweat covering it. It made John incredibly sad.

Mary tutted at the sight, going into the adjoining bathroom and coming out a moment later with a damp cloth. "Can't the doctors do anything about it?" She asked, placing the cloth on Sherlock's forehead, eyes going wide. "He's burning up."

John took a deep breath, bracing himself as the storm burst over him, a gust of wind making him feel slightly dizzy. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to be overcome by the sudden wave of worry that hit him like a tsunami. The fact that someone else could see Sherlock's suffering, his depleted state, made the situation seem all the more real, like John wasn't just hallucinating all of this. The reality of it all made him feel slightly sick.

"He err…" his voice came out gruff, and he coughed to clear his throat, "He's receiving antibiotics for it, we just have to wait for it to abate and the infection to clear up."

Mary tutted again, pressing her hand firmer to Sherlock's forehead in what John assumed was an act of comfort. Elizabeth in the meanwhile had removed her chubby hands from Sherlock's hair and was currently tugging lightly on the tube of the oxygen prongs. John quickly but gently pulled her hand away, before she pulled Sherlock's oxygen supply out. He stared down sadly at his friend, a sudden wetness appearing in his eyes as the rain in his mind became the tears on his face, the raw emotions finally pouring out of him like a monsoon.

Mary soon noticed her husband's sudden breakdown, and gently pulled Elizabeth out of his arms and into hers, the toddler grasping onto her Mother's woollen sweater immediately. "Come on, Sweetheart, let's give Dad some time alone with Uncle Sherlock, yeah?" she said gently, and touched John's shoulder gently as she passed him. He stopped her to reach out for his daughter's hand and kiss it lightly; giving Elizabeth the best smile he could muster.

"See you in a while, Little Lizzie." He whispered. Mary gave him an encouraging smile before making her way quietly out of the room, gurgling toddler in her arms.

John sucked in another breath, putting a hand to the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the tears than were leaking down his face. This was the last thing he should be doing: it was possible that Sherlock could subconsciously pick up on his shaky mood and take a downturn.

"Oh, look at what you're doing to me," he muttered, taking his hand away from his face and peering through bleary eyes at his best friend, still perched on the edge of the bed. "This isn't fair Sherlock; I'm getting the bum deal _again_. Why couldn't you listen for once? Just once, hmm? I don't know what else I'm supposed to try if the blog wasn't enough…" he reached out to turn over the cloth on Sherlock's forehead, the now exposed side feeling rather warm. He chuckled morosely, withdrawing his hand and putting in on his thigh to brace himself, "Then again, you never really liked it."

Never before had John felt so helpless. The inkling of hope he had felt at Mycroft's suggesting that memories might draw Sherlock out of this was drowning in the storm of despair, and John was beginning to believe he had never felt so desperate. The last time he had was when Sherlock had been 'dead'. No, no, he couldn't think of that, that trauma wasn't going to occur again any time soon; Sherlock would wake up and he would be fine and life would be normal again. It would. This is what John had to tell himself to stop from being carried away by the hurricane.

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><p>The morning after John's breakdown it dawned, for the first time in about three weeks, clear and bright, no rain clouds pattered constantly on his coat, and in his mind. This fresh start brought new life to him, and he felt rejuvenated with new hope, a new sense of determination to get Sherlock well and truly out of coma. If he had been thinking rationally, he would've reminded himself that there was no medical explanation for Sherlock's coma, and so they had no idea what would truly help him surface from it. But those thoughts just wouldn't do that morning.<p>

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><p>His reading of that morning's newspaper was interrupted by a sharp rapping on Sherlock's hospital room door, and John turned to see Greg enter looking distracted somewhat.<p>

"Greg," he said surprised, closing the newspaper and putting it on the bedside table, "I didn't know you were visiting today."

"Well, err, I wasn't planning on it but…listen, John, we've just had a breakthrough into Sherlock's case."

John's heart skipped a beat. The case had been open and closed within a week, a simple and pure accident. Why had there been a 'breakthrough'?

"Well, what is it?" he asked with anticipation.

Greg hesitated, scratching the back of his prickly, grey head, and staring at the wan Sherlock in the bed; his fever still hadn't broken. "John, we have reason to believe that the accident was intentional. That someone was out to kill Sherlock in that cab, on that road, at that moment deliberately."

John just stared. The rain began to pour again.

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><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed, thank you for reading, and please review etc.!<strong>

**in reply to Clara: I'm not really sure what you mean by that, but I'm gonna put a baby in my story regardless :)**

**HappyReading! TheBritishBourbon x**


	5. Chapter 5

**I am so sorry that this took almost three weeks, but once again work and life got the better of me. but here we are! hope everyone enjoys this and thank you so much for all the people who are reading, reviewing etc. (40 followers is a big deal for me)**

**disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Sherlock couldn't be sure how long it was since he had last heard John's voice through the treacle thick darkness, but it felt he had lived through a lifetime by the time he heard it again. He was lying on the floor again, feeling uncomfortably hot and nauseous, when a sudden white light flashed burning and bright. Sherlock started, looking up. It was dark around him again, but the white light was imprinted on his retinas, distorting his vision and increasing his pounding headache.<p>

_"__What evidence do you have?"_ that was John's voice, sounding shocked and was that…angry?

He could hear another voice, too, but it was muffled, and he had to concentrate hard against his headache in order to discern the words. _"__Analysed…..footage…mysterious…."_

Was that….Lestrade?

_"__What sort of mysterious behaviour?"_ John again, sounding angrier. Sherlock could imagine his fists curling and uncurling in his lap.

_"__It would be easier…..it yourself…but without auth…."_

_"__Well I'm sure one phone call to Mycroft Holmes and that will all be sorted out." _

What was going on? Sherlock groaned in frustration; this was ridiculous! It was like he was tuning into a faulty radio that could only broadcast John! How in the hell was he supposed to help himself if he couldn't focus properly? Sherlock groaned again, this time in pain as his head gave a particularly sharp lightening bolt of pain, the scorching pattern of the white light still not gone from his vision. He felt utterly useless in his helplessness.

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><p>John felt frozen. His hands were icy, shaking, not with fear, oh no, but with anger. Apparently someone had done this to Sherlock, hit him with a lorry, injured him and put him in a coma, on purpose. Greg had said they wanted to intentionally kill Sherlock, how he knew that John couldn't be sure, but at the moment everything felt muffled by the downpour in his mind, ever stronger as John's mood picked up in severity.<p>

The shower in his mind abruptly stopped at the trilling sound of his mobile, and he quickly slipped out of the room to answer it, face steely when he saw the caller ID.

"Mycroft. You've heard, obviously."

"Of course," came the smooth reply, "I can imagine you must be feeling rather livid, John?"

"You bloody well know I am." John stated angrily, receiving a reprimanding look from a passing nurse. "Mycroft, you've got to get me clearance to see the footage; I don't care about all this legal malarkey, all I care about is knowing whether some bastard intentionally wanted Sherlock dead."

"Please stop with the hysterics, John, I've already got someone clearing security for you and another should be delivering a recording to you quite soon."

John frowned, "I could just go to Scotland Yard, Mycroft."

He heard Mycroft take in a breath, "I believe it might be rather beneficial for my brother were he to remain present at each stage of this investigation, you know how he loves solving these little puzzles; solving his own would probably cause him to jump up and down. If he could."

John raised his eyebrows, shocked, "_Mycroft._ We don't even know if he can hear me or not; how would he be able to concentrate enough to solve his own case when he's in a _coma_?!"

"Don't think my brother so mundane, John. With a brain like his how could it possibly stop processing data? Well, I say a brain like his when really his is rather slow compared to mi-"  
>"Yes, alright," John sighed, "I'll go along with your little plan Mycroft, just because I'm bloody well desperate to get him out of this."<p>

John could practically hear Mycroft smirking, "I'm glad John. Do send my regards to my brother dear."

The line went dead. John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Damn Mycroft Holmes when he had a valid point, as this might actually work.

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><p>Returning to the serenity of Sherlock's room John sat himself down upon his chair and leaned forward, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists in order to warm them up from the friction. He reached out and took Sherlock's hand, intertwining his own fingers with Sherlock's sweaty digits to make maximum contact.<p>

"Sherlock, if you can hear me, then I want you to listen to me very clearly. You're in a coma because you were in an accident: a lorry went into the side of the cab you were travelling in." John sighed, feeling like a complete and utter prat, "but now Greg thinks he's found something, he thinks that the accident may not have been that at all, and that maybe this was done on purpose. Any idea who could have done that, hmm?" John squeezed Sherlock's hand to give him some support, and to steady himself against another wave of anger. "Mycroft is sending 'round a tape of the CCTV, try to concentrate on what you hear if you can." John sighed again, leaning back. This was utterly ridiculous; the chances of Sherlock actually hearing him were….well, not even worth mentioning. What the _hell_ did Mycroft expect to happen?

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><p><em>A plethora of rain decorated the street scene, as cars whooshed by from left to right; their windscreen wipers waving at the pedestrians on the busy street, all huddled under hoods and umbrellas. Directly front on from the camera a line of vehicles lay in waiting for the go, a red light the only thing stopping them from plummeting into the speeding cars from the left. Suddenly a pedestrian walked in front of the stationary vehicles, seeing it was clear to cross, but before he could a burly man dressed all in black ran out from a crowd of shoppers and grabbed his upper arm, forcing him back to the pavement. <em>

"Now this is the first thing that struck me odd," Said Greg, pausing the TV with a remote. They were in Sherlock's room, late afternoon, with a portable television set placed opposite Sherlock's bed. John and Greg stood either side of the bed watching the video intensely, John with his brow furrowed, jotting Greg's words down on a notepad. "The pedestrian was safe to walk; there was no need for that man to pull him back."

"…right"  
>Lestrade continued the video: <em>the pedestrian and the man in black could be seen having an expressive discussion, the vehicles still lying in wait for their time to charge. <em>('sufficient time for the pedestrian to cross the road,' thought John, jotting that down on his notepad) _suddenly from the left of the screen came a cab through the rain._

"That is Sherlock's cab," Greg paused the video again, pointing to the accused vehicle. The image was too grainy to make out the occupants of the cab, but John could just make out the outline of a passenger in the back: Sherlock. "Now watch the lorry at the front there, "Greg ordered John, now pointing to a lorry waiting to drive, the driver obscured by the rainfall.

_As Sherlock's cab came onto the screen the lorry suddenly accelerated forward, and through the hazy fall of rain is pummelled into the side of the cab, knocking it off course so that it skidded and almost upturned. Cars started breaking, people started staring, and the lorry came to an uneasy stop, only slightly dented, where as the left side of the cab looked almost completely concave._

John sucked in a breath, and moved over to Sherlock, chucking his notepad at the end of the bed. He lifted the blanket and shirt covering Sherlock's left side, and examined the still infected gash left from the accident. Seeing the actual incident made the whole situation even worse for John, sending dizzying gushes of icy wind through him in shock; the force of impact of the crash had been horrendous, could have killed Sherlock, and he was all at once thankful for Sherlock's surviving it and dismayed that this had actually happened to his best friend.

"_Jesus_," he breathed, and Greg nodded his agreement. John replaced Sherlock's shirt and blanket and gave his best friend's shoulder a light squeeze before picking back his notepad and pen and rejoining Greg by the television.

"Can you see what I mean about it looking suspicious? We've got to assume that the man who stopped the pedestrian knew what the lorry was going to do, hence why he stopped the pedestrian in the first place…"

"…because he wanted to avoid any extra casualties apart from Sherlock." John finished for him, nodding. This was so odd: they were crime solving without Sherlock; well, he technically _was_ in the room, but to John it felt like he wasn't.

Lestrade continued the video: _the man dressed in black suddenly rushed towards the lorry, pulling open the door and helping another man out of the cabin. They both had their faces covered, hats covering their heads and coat collars up, making it hard to discern their facial features. The lorry driver ran off down the road and out of shot. The man in black raced over to the cab and past the crowd that was quickly forming. He shoved open the drivers door, helping out the driver. Then he shouted for something_ (an ambulance, John assumed, from the amount of people who suddenly got out their phones and started dialling)_, and practically dragged the cab driver away down the street after the lorry driver._

"That seems strange," John piped up, writing his theories down on his notepad, "why would they drag out the cabbie….?"

Greg rolled his shoulders under his thick trench coat, "Well, we've got to assume that maybe the cabbie has something to do with this too."

"Hang on," John said, raising his pen from the pad, "You said the driver of the cab was injured too, and you can see how the other man was practically dragging him," he pointed to the screen displaying the battered cab, the possible conspirators almost out of the shot, "but why would they risk injuring one of their own?"

Once again Greg rolled his shoulders back, looking strained, "Well, maybe that was a sacrifice they had to make: one of them would put himself in the firing line to get Sherlock,"

John stared at the screen, sighing heavily. But who exactly were_they?_

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><p>Later, once Greg had gone, John took up his usual seat next to Sherlock and read him back his notes, making sure the detective knew every single piece of information he did on the case. When he had finished he spent a considerable amount of time just staring at Sherlock in what John could have called pity. But he knew Sherlock wouldn't want him to pity him; <em>'<em>_oh for god's sake John, do stop with your feelings.' _

The man's fever was still getting the better of him, and sweat stood out sharply on his brow, trickling with perverse gentleness, considering what damage it was causing to Sherlock, into his hairline. John reached over for the cloth resting in the bowl of cold water on the bedside table, dabbing gently at Sherlock's forehead.

"I never thought I would say this," he muttered to his best friend, "but I hope Mycroft is right." He leaned forwards slightly, leaving his hand resting on the cloth lying on Sherlock's brow. "Sherlock, if you can hear me, then please just help yourself, okay? 'Cause I don't know how much longer I can stand you being like this," he took a deep breath, swallowing down the lump in his throat, grabbing Sherlock's hand. "My daughter misses you, Sherlock. I don't think you now how much she likes you, hell, I'm as surprised as you would be." He chuckled to himself, Sherlock's only response the slightly erratic beeping of the heart monitor. "I miss you too. And Mary. And Mrs Hudson. Even Mycroft does, I _think_…..so do us all a favour and solve all of this out, hm? Please, if not for them, then for me."

John paused, pulling away and blinking the tears out of his eyes. He kept Sherlock's hand in his. It was improbable that Sherlock could hear, and if he could that he would understand how John was feeling. He knew he wasn't treating Sherlock fairly, the man surely must understand John after all he had done for the army doctor, but John was an absolute wreck at the moment, the storm inside once again rising up, threatening to consume him.

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><p>It wasn't dark anymore, not exactly, but there was a half light that made discerning anything a difficult job for Sherlock, especially in his current state. He felt as though he was on fire, burning up viciously, sweat covering his face, a sharp pain radiating up and down his body with fervour as his heart raced. And it wasn't just him but his Mind Palace: it felt like a furnace. He scrambled around on the floor, groaning at the effort it took to move but an inch. He needed something to hold onto, or he was going to smoulder away in the fire in his Mind Palace.<p>

_"__You're in a coma because you were in an accident: a lorry went into the side of the cab you were travelling in."_

Sherlock gasped, lifting his head with dizzying speed. That was John again. "_John_," he breathed. He forced himself to focus on John's words past his relief at something familiar, almost homely. He was in a coma. A _coma_. He couldn't help but sneer at himself, at how his own body had shut down on him. _That_ was why he was trapped in here, this solitary darkness.

_"__Maybe this was done on purpose. Any idea who that could have been, hmm?"_

John again, with suggestions of a crime. Oh, now this was getting interesting. Sherlock heaved himself up onto one elbow, the heat filling his head. The darkness was lifting evermore, until he didn't feel a disconcerting isolation anymore, but more grounded. He smiled to himself: finally, the game was back on.

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><p><em>"<em>_The lorry driver accelerated forwards and into your cab as soon as he saw it…..Lestrade believes the cabbie, the lorry driver, and the man on the street to be in on it together, that they wished to harm you but were willing to sacrifice themselves in order to do so, meaning there must have been malicious intent…."_

John's voice came again a while later, giving Sherlock more information. To his absolute irritation, the flames of what he could only assume was a fever were interfering with his ability to concentrate, and John's words were fading in and out of coherence. Sherlock may have been a sociopath, but from the words he could hear John sounded wearisome and teary. He needed to show John he was still in there, fighting for himself and, he guessed, for John.

_"__The impact of the lorry was enough to do serious damage to you and the cab…."_

Sherlock pulled himself up onto his other elbow, sucking in a breath as sweat trickled into his eyes.

_"__You have serious gashes on both your left arm and your left side; the latter is what is causing you to have a fever which is being battled by antibiotics."_

Sherlock pulled himself gradually to his feet, staggering a bit as he acclimatised to the new position. His head was shot through his lightening bolts and he groaned in pain.

_"__You also have a gash on your forehead, not too deep that is now scarring, and a broken leg, apart from that there was the obvious injuries you would expect from a crash like yours…."_

Sherlock took uneasy steps, desperately trying to stop himself from collapsing. The darkness was thinning, and Sherlock could make out four walls, boxing him in. He searched desperately for a door.

_"__Sherlock, if you can hear me, then please just help yourself, okay? 'Cause I don't know how much longer I can stand you being like this,"_

"I'm coming John," he muttered, not caring how sentimental he sounded. Lights were beginning to flicker on, and he spotted the outline of a door right in front of him. He smiled in relief and made torturously slow steps towards it, each one costing him a horrendous amount of energy.

_"__I miss you too."_

He was getting nearer, the darkness turning to brightness almost painfully sharp. The fire inside him was nauseating, but still he carried on. For himself. And for John.

_"__So do us all a favour and solve all of this out, hm?"_

He was so close, only a few steps. He raised his hand to reach for the sleek door handle.

_"__Please, if not for them, then for me."_

'I'm trying, John.' With every ounce of his energy, sweat pouring off him onto his clothes and a victorious smile on his face, Sherlock grabbed the door handle and with a smooth motion the door swung open and Sherlock toppled through.

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><p>In John's own Sherlock's sweaty hand twitched. John froze, letting go of Sherlock's hand and staring at in complete and utter shock. He watched it again, to make sure he was not fooling himself in his despair, and was delighted when Sherlock's hand once again moved, the fingers curling in slightly.<p>

His words had gotten through, he hoped, causing a response after nil. John felt himself suddenly laughing, relief and joy dispersing the clouds in his mind, feeling the need to call Mary and Mycroft and Greg all at once, but instead reaching to press the call button to summon Sherlock's doctor. This was progress: after almost two weeks of absolutely nothing from Sherlock there was finally _something_.

"Sherlock," he grinned, "Thank you, you absolute sod, thank you."

There was, of course, many other barriers for them to get through. But, for now John had something to hold onto. Something to give him hope.

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><p><strong>Tada! hope this was good and please tell me what you think!<strong>

**Hopefully the next chapter will have Molly in it (depending on whatever it is I do!)**

**thank you for reading**

**Happy Reading! TheBritishBourbon x**


	6. Chapter 6

**this is pretty quick, right? ;)**

**I'm sorry, I lied! Molly will be in the next chapter! this one was longer than expected**

**I'd love responses to the extra scene I've added in here: do you think it was needed, or should I just gotten on with the main storyline of John's investigations? thank you!**

**and thank you to everyone reading, reviewing, following, 'favouriting' etc. :) it seriously means so much!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Sherlock's doctor had been pleased at the first signs of waking, telling John that it was only a matter of time. John had felt brighter ever since Sherlock's hand twitching, a buzz of energy stirring within him like a spring breeze, blowing away a part of his concern and replacing it with growing hope. He had phoned Mary almost immediately, and she had reflected his delight, passing on the news to Mrs Hudson. That had been two days ago, and it was now over two weeks since Sherlock had been rendered comatose. Every now and then his hand would twitch and John would watch to see if Sherlock did anything else. He knew his friend probably wouldn't appreciate being stared at like he was a zoo animal, but John had to cling to his hope. Sherlock never moved further though.<p>

Greg had had no luck in finding the cabbie yet, deciding that it would be best to start with someone they couldn't be sure was in on the potential plot to harm Sherlock; if they got the truth out of him then they could work on solving this mess from there.

The situation of helplessness was made worse by the fact the antibiotics hadn't taken much effect on the infection on Sherlock's side yet, the fever having only abated slightly, still leaving Sherlock coated in sweat, his sheets and pyjamas having to be changed every few hours for his comfort, and shivering from a cold only he could feel. The infection was persistent, the wound red and angry looking underneath its dressing, and his heartbeat had accelerated somewhat. John and the doctor had decided to increase the dose, with the consent of Sherlock's parents first, of course, who were still in town.

Now, waiting on news from Lestrade, John sat there for a while staring into space, the sharp reflection of the ceiling light off the linoleum floor causing his eyes to hurt until he had to turn away, once again looking at Sherlock lying in his hospital bed. He was sick of this: the hospital, the stark whiteness, Sherlock comatose in a hospital bed, spending everyday for over two weeks waiting in the agony of anticipation. He needed a break, but he couldn't have one; he had promised Sherlock, and John Watson would not break that promise.

His gloomy thoughts from a gloomy mind were broken by the trilling of his mobile. Just like the day before he stepped outside for the call, but the caller wasn't Mycroft, but Greg.

"John, hi. Listen, we've found the cabbie, luckily we were able to track him down from his hospital file; we've brought him in for questioning."

John breathed out, blinking in relief that there was finally something. "Great, that's good."

"Look, John, I can't permit you to be in there with him for the interrogation, but you could come along to view from the observation room?"

John paused for a moment, considering this. Sherlock wouldn't be alone if he went: his parents were planning on visiting again, and John desperately wanted to go…..

"Would I be able to bring a recording of the interrogation? –with the aide of Mycroft, of course." He asked, already knowing Greg's answer as the man chuckled.

"John, with Mycroft Holmes, the whole of the force is open for your perusal. "

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><p>The cold detachment of the interrogation room and the secret room off of it reminded John very much of Mycroft Holmes himself, and it seemed rather fitting that John stood here because of his power. The elder Holmes brother was there in person, deciding maybe that government could wait for a bit when his little brother was concerned. Inside the interrogation room itself, Greg was seated with Sally Donovan, curly hair tied back severely and a serious look on her face. She was neutral in this investigation, not caring whether this man in front of her, a hard looking man with his arm in a cast and a face yellow and purple from fading bruises, was guilty or not of conspiring to harm Sherlock. She probably couldn't care less.<p>

"Can't you get any of your…lackeys to track down the men in the footage?" John asked Mycroft as they stood watching while Greg went through all the legal matters for the recording.

The other man squinted his eyes a little, "I already have my best people working on identifying the men in the footage, John. Do not worry yourself that I am not doing my all to find my brother's assailants."

John snorted at that, "That was almost….compassion, blimey, Mycroft."

Mycroft seemed to freeze a little, and then cleared his throat, tapping his ever present umbrella on the ground. "I…..care for my brother….somewhat strongly, I consider finding his assailants the greatest justice I could do for him, and so I shall do it." He pointedly didn't look at John.

John stared at him in surprise, "If it were possible for humans to do so I would've thought you were melting."

Mycroft coughed, looking decidedly uncomfortable, "Yes, well, enough of your sentiment, John, we must focus on the matter at hand."

John just nodded, still staring at Mycroft. Suddenly he realised Greg had finished, and he turned his attention back to the interrogation room.

* * *

><p>Back at the hospital, Mary was making her way to Sherlock's room, Elizabeth in her arms. Today was her day off, and to save Mrs Hudson a day of toddler entertaining she decided they might as well visit 'Uncle Sherlock', seeing as her daughter was completely besotted by the man, to everyone's, even Sherlock's, surprise.<p>

The nurses cooed at Elizabeth in her completely pink, colour coordinated outfit, and Mary was forced to spend an appalling amount of time waiting for them to be done with their mollycoddling. When she did finally make it to Sherlock's room she wasn't to find him alone, for Mr and Mrs Holmes were sat on either side of Sherlock's bed, Mrs Holmes with a firm hold on Sherlock's hand whilst Mr Holmes was humming absently, a habit, Mary knew, frowning slightly.

"Oh, sorry," she muttered, trying to back out as discreetly as she could with a gurgling Elizabeth, who had sighted Sherlock and was desperate to get to him. Although she had spent quite a lot of time with Sherlock's parents, and although they did not know it, she still felt the crippling guilt that she was the one who had shot their son.

It was too late, however, as Mrs Holmes had risen and was now ushering Mary in, and another round of cooing began, Elizabeth still more interested in her godfather.

"Oh, no Mary, dear it's absolutely fine, I feel like I haven't seen you in absolutely ages! Oh, look, and this is Elizabeth!" Mary let Mrs Holmes take charge of her wriggling daughter for a while. "Oh, look how you've grown, dear! Oh, you're absolutely charming!"

Mary smiled, reaching for her daughter's hand and squeezing it a little. Mr Holmes watched all this from where he was standing by Sherlock's bed. Elizabeth, instead of reacting to Mrs Holmes's attempts at getting her to say 'hello', was still desperately trying to get to Sherlock, twisting round in Mrs Holmes's arms, reaching out with her small arms.

"Sh-wock!" She pleaded, "Sh-wock!"

Mrs Holmes looked down at Elizabeth for a moment, and then at her husband, both were wearing expressions of surprise, and Mr Holmes suddenly looked a little teary. They obviously hadn't expected Mary's and John's daughter to want Sherlock so desperately.

"She err….she's grown very fond of Sherlock," Mary tried to explain, as Elizabeth still continued to get to the sleeping man. Mrs Holmes seemed to need a moment to regain herself, before nodding at Mary and smiling down at Elizabeth.

"I can see that, how very charming!" both parents shared a look again, as if they couldn't believe Sherlock had gained such affection from someone other than them. They were obviously very aware of their son's sociopathic tendencies and this must have seemed very odd. "Well, why don't we go and say hello to him then?" she asked Elizabeth, and went to sit down in the chair by the bed again.

Mary and Mr Holmes looked at each other, and Mr Holmes looked like he might hug her, but instead he just gave her his warm smile and offered her his chair, which she accepted gratefully.

"Sherlock, dear, Mary is here with Elizabeth," Mrs Holmes told her sleeping son, who was shivering from the fever, stroking back his damp curls. Elizabeth reached out a podgy hand, wanting to join in.

"She likes his hair," Mary explained once again, and Mr Holmes chuckled. Mrs Holmes leaned forward so she was perched on the edge of the bed, just like John had done, and Elizabeth happily grabbed onto Sherlock's curls, rubbing them between petite fingers.

Mrs Holmes looked up at Mary, quite obviously taken aback by the toddler's affection.

"I didn't realise she would be so…taken with him, with Sherlock being _Sherlock_," Mrs Holmes said quietly to Mary, not unkindly, but with an exasperated affection.

Mary nodded, "John and I were as surprised as you are, and even Sherlock is I think….he seems…exasperated by her constant attention but also revels in it," Sherlock hardly ever denied Elizabeth the attention she craved and the attention she gave to him, and he would sometimes spend a long while rattling off his deductions to her as she played with his hair or his cuffs. It really was rather endearing.

"Yes, that sounds like Sherlock," Mr Holmes agreed quietly, speaking for the first time. "It's nice that you bring her to…visit him." he looked down at her from where he was stood behind her chair, and Mary gave him an encouraging smile.

"She loves seeing her 'Uncle Sherlock', and I'm sure her presence is helping him in some way too…" she didn't believe herself on that last part, but she pretended to.

Mr Holmes sniffled a little behind her, and reached forwards to place his hand over Elizabeth's, almost as if he was thanking her for her obsession with Sherlock. However, his expression soon turned concerned again as he felt the heat emanating from Sherlock's forehead.

"Good lord, he's absolutely boiling…." He muttered, grabbing a cool cloth from the bedside table and soaking it in the water bowl there. He passed it to his wife, who gently moved Elizabeth's hand away so she could place to cloth on Sherlock's forehead.

"There…" she muttered, and Mary's heart clenched at the sight of Sherlock's mother giving him some well needed maternal care. "These aren't hospital pyjamas, are they?" Mrs Holmes asked Mary, smoothing down the sleeve of Sherlock's t-shirt.

Mary shook her head, "No, they're his own; John thought it would be more comfortable for him to have his own things."

Mrs Holmes looked absolutely delighted by this, "Oh, Mary, your husband is a keeper; don't you ever let him out of your sight!"

It was meant as a joke, but the words rung hard in Mary's ears, "I won't…" she muttered, trying her best to smile.

At that moment Elizabeth started to pat at the cool cloth on Sherlock's forehead, giggling a little as she got little beads of cold water on her hand.

"Sh-wock, cold," she exclaimed, patting the man's cheek in order to rouse him, leaving it wet. Of course, she was unsuccessful. "Sh-wock," she demanded of him, now pulling lightly on his curls, "Sh-wock!"

Mary decided she would intervene before Elizabeth either started crying or pulled out Sherlock's oxygen supply. Her daughter was obviously rather distressed: it was probably best to leave. She pulled her daughter away from Mrs Holmes and Sherlock, much to Elizabeth's chagrin.

"Well, I'll leave you to it. Suppose I better take you to get some lunch, eh?" she asked a pouting Elizabeth.

"It was lovely to see you, dear," said Mrs Holmes, and Mr Holmes nodded, sorting out another cool cloth for his son, smiling his farewell. Mary went to the door, promising she would see them again soon.

She was just at the end of the corridor when she heard someone calling her name.

"Mary", Mr Holmes was closing the door to Sherlock's room behind him as she turned around. He did a funny little jog up to her, his shoes squeaking on the floor. "Mary, I just have to say that….well, not often have my wife and I seen Sherlock so cared for in life, I know how he can be quite…" he trailed off, and Mary gave him an encouraging smile. She thought he must have found it hard to get the words out. "But it seems you and John have given him the friendship he has always needed but didn't have, until he met John, and err…little-little Elizabeth also seems very taken to him," he reached out and took her little hand, seemingly transfixed, eyes vacant as though he were staring into the past, to when his own children had been Elizabeth's age, when they had sought their parents' affection, instead of pushing them away. "But, ermm…" he brought himself back to the present, "I must say thank you for it, please pass my regards on to John."

Mary smiled at him, a warmth blossoming in her like a daffodil in the spring. "There's no need to say thank you," if only he knew what she had done, "John, I don't think, has ever had a closer friend than Sherlock."

Mr Holmes frowned, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his tweed trousers, "But…you, surely?"

Mary smiled, hoisting up Elizabeth more firmly into her hold, "No, their friendship is unique…I don't think anyone or anything could compete with it."

Mr Holmes looked teary again, Mary's words bringing the conformation he needed that his younger son wasn't alone, and would never be again.

* * *

><p>John returned to the hospital a few hours later, the recording of the interrogation safely in his pocket and cassette player borrowed from Scotland Yard in his left hand. The interrogation had been….revealing, and the storm in his mind was raging once again, both in desperation to get the information to Sherlock and with anger. He met Mr and Mrs Holmes just as they were on their way out of the hospital, and stopped for a hug from Mrs Holmes and a handshake from Mr Holmes.<p>

"Mary came to visit earlier," she told him, "with your daughter, oh John she's just perfect!"

John smiled his agreement, "She is, yes."

"And so attached to Sherlock," she added quietly, picking an invisible piece of fluff from John's jacket, "It's so good of you to take Sherlock's case on personally, Mycroft told us all about it, of course…"

"We'll sort this out, I promise," John addressed both parents, and Mr Holmes looked at him gratefully.

"You heard he's finally…?" John asked after a pregnant silence.

Mrs Holmes beamed at him, "Oh, yes, we were so relieved when Mycroft told us, we hoped something might happen whilst we were visiting but unfortunately…" she trailer off, and her husband put his hand on her shoulder.

John gave her his best 'I'm a doctor and I know these things' expression, "We have to give him time,"

"John's right, dear. Let's get something to eat, shall we?" Mr Holmes spoke up, and with a quick goodbye John was left alone in the corridor.

* * *

><p>Sherlock lay, for a very long time, panting just outside the door from whatever dark hell he had been trapped in for however long it had been, staring at the spiralling staircase that lay ahead of him, an exact copy of the one from the house in <em>A Study in Pink<em>. His heart was pounding in his head, and sweat was making his hair stick together in clumps. His whole body was in pain, but it felt almost sweet, now that he had the success of knowing he was out of _that_ room. Lights started to flicker above him as he stared at some peeling wallpaper, needing maintenance just like he did.

_"__Sherlock, dear, Mary is here with Elizabeth," _

Sherlock lifted his head_, 'Oh god is that…?'_ yes that was definitely his mother. He was going to glare Mycroft into the New Year for bringing his parents into this. But, he was in a coma, that much he knew, and he knew how they loved to worry so. He sighed, hoping that if he could hear his parents, then he might catch other snippets of the outside. Stuck in his own head, he was bound to go stir crazy.

_"__Sherlock, darling, well be back to see you very soon, just remember not to spend too much time in that Mind Castle of yours."_

_"__I think it is a Mind Palace, dear." _

Oh good, his parents appeared to be leaving; maybe now they could get down to business?

The lights in the stairwell were now completely on, still dim but casting him in a pleasurable light. He almost felt like he could fall asleep here, like he did at the end of a long case on the sofa in Baker Street. The pain had dulled to a low throb, almost bearable, and the floor below suddenly felt very comfortable….

_"__Sherlock, this is a recording of the interrogation of the man who was driving your cab when it crashed, Mr David Cubitt." _

John, talking of an interrogation, meaning there was possibly new information, information he sorely needed….

Sherlock stopped his eyes from closing, forcing them open and himself to sit up, and a lurch of pain hit him like nausea.

_"__Mr Cubitt, what is your profession?"_ that was Lestrade, definitely Lestrade.

_"__A cab driver."_ This voice was deep and monotone. Mr Cubitt, he assumed.

_"__What is your _real_profession?"_

There was a silence, and no answer came to this question, even after Lestrade demand he answer it. _'__For god's sake, Lestrade, why can't you just deduce it like I do? Oh yes, because you're an idiot.'_

_"__What were you doing driving the cab that one Sherlock Holmes took on the 30__th__December?"_

_"__Driving." Mr Cubitt said, mocking in his tone._

_Lestrade sighed, "Did you have criminal intent when you drove Sherlock Holmes in that cab?"_

_"__The only intent I had was of doing. My . job."_

_Lestrade sighed._

Sherlock perked up a bit more, sitting against the cracking wall in his Mind Palace.

_"__Mr Cubitt, if you do not answer truthfully then I am going to have to arrest you for withholding evidence. Now you don't want that do you?"_

There was a moment of silence, in which the pain in Sherlock's head increased and he wiped away dripping sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand.

Finally Cubitt replied, _"__Fine." _

This told Sherlock more about the man than words; didn't take long to convince: obviously more interested in saving his own skin.

_"__I will ask you again then, did you have criminal intent when you drove Sherlock Holmes in that cab?"_

_Mr Cubitt scoffed, "If that's what you want to call it; I see it more as dealing with an unwanted pest."_

Sherlock frowned. Mr Cubitt….he knew he's heard that name before, probably deleted the information from a long ago case that was no longer interesting.

_"__How so?"_

_"…__Mr Holmes has proved a little…difficult for some people in the past; he needs to be stopped from interfering."_

_"__And is this why you stole a cab on the 30__th__of December?"_

_"__I didn't steal it, I actually am a cabbie, it actually is my job."_

_"__Hmm, well, we'll have to look into that on our records won't we?" a chair scrapped against the floor and a door opened and closed. _

Sherlock presumed it was Donovan going to look up Mr. Cubitt.

_'__Oh, for god's sake, Lestrade; when will you learn to do your job properly?'_ deciding this was ridiculous, and that of course Lestrade couldn't cope with solving a case without him, Sherlock slowly pulled himself to his feet.

With an agony slicing through his body, Sherlock took staggered steps towards the staircase, sweat dripping like raindrops from his forehead. He no longer felt hot, but instead felt extremely cold, and he wrapped his coat around him for warmth. A fever, he presumed.

_"__Okay, so Mr Cubitt, if your profession really is as a cab driver, was it your intent to cause an accident that would harm Mr Holmes in some way?"_

_Mr Cubitt laughed, "It worked rather well, didn't it? I've heard he's comatose in hospital, although that's not exactly the same as being dead is it?" He sounded rather disappointed._

Sherlock dragged himself up, gasping as the words echoed around in his head, stars bursting in front of his eyes from exhaustion and exertion. The first landing was close, he could rest then….

_Lestrade sounded angry, "But you managed to get yourself injured _

_"__We didn't anticipate that to happen; the rain caused some…confusion."  
><em>_"'__We'?"_

_A pause of silence._

Sherlock groaned, his body feeling like jelly as his hands strained against the banister, pulling himself up and feeling as weak as a kitten. He was shivering all over now, eyes blurring with tears from the pain.

_"__Mr Cubitt who were your accomplices?"_

_Another pause of silence._

_"__Mr Cubitt, if you do not answer my question then I am afraid that I __**must **__arrest you for withholding evidence. Mr Cubitt? Okay, why did you mean to harm Sherlock Holmes?" _Lestrade was getting desperate.

Sherlock was too, agonisingly near to the first landing. He slumped onto the stairs, practically crawling up them.

_"__I've told you! Mr Holmes has caused trouble for some people and they needed him got rid of!"_

Sherlock's left hand reached out and slammed weakly against the cold floor of the landing. Everything was cold, and he was so tired, vision fading.

_"__Who, Mr Cubitt?"_

'Slam!' Sherlock's other hand slammed against the landing, and he began pulling his body up, screaming from the pain. His eyesight was obscured by tears and sweat.

_"__Mr Cubitt, I am going to have to arrest you for withholding evidence…"_

Sherlock swivelled his legs onto the landing, his bleary eyesight starting to fade as black curtains came down over them. No, he didn't want the dark; the dark had been suffocating before. And he was so cold, so _bloody_ cold….

Before he knew it, Sherlock collapsed back on the landing, the curtains falling over his eyes as he sank into darkness.

* * *

><p>John stopped the recording immediately when Sherlock's heartbeat and temperature suddenly rocketed upwards. He rushed to his best friend's side, staring intently at the monitors. It looked as though Sherlock's fever was broken; finally the antibiotics were doing their job, killing the infection.<p>

"Sherlock, stay calm, it's your fever breaking that's all." He ordered his friend. Sherlock was shivering violently, but John still placed a cool cloth on his forehead, knowing Sherlock was as hot as fire in reality, that he only felt as cold as ice.

"This is good Sherlock," John spoke aloud his relief, feeling as though the coolness of the cool cloth was washing over him, calming the storm inside him. "It gives me one less thing to worry about." He joked. After the interrogation, that was exactly what he needed. He was worrying about Mr Cubitt's insolence in answering Lestrade's questions, about whether they would ever get answers from the man, he was worrying about why this crime had not been spotted earlier, what this could mean, and what Lestrade would find as he looked into it. But most of all he was worried about Sherlock, and when, _when_ not if, he would wake up; it was a constant worry, a worry that caused the storm in his mind to surge up, wearing him away bit by bit. The less worry John Watson had, the better he could cope. But this was Sherlock, and things were never done half way, were they?

* * *

><p><strong>ta da! I didn't realise how long this chapter was!<strong>

**as a btw, the name 'Cubitt' comes from the original ACD story 'The Dancing Men', which is one of my favs :)**

**thank you for reading and please reviewing etc. :)**

**Happy Reading!**

**TheBritishBourbon x**


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay, this is not amazing but I had to get in some more plot to move it along, but I hope you all like it!**

**I can't believe I have over 50 followers thank you so much!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>The next day dawned with a sharp brightness in the air, stinging John's tired eyes. He hadn't intended on staying the night at the hospital, but that's what he did; he felt that after Sherlock's fever had broken the man might start to become more coherent. But John's hopes were of cause for nothing: Sherlock's temperature did drop to a much more agreeable degree, but the man did no more than he already had, and John had to convince himself he was hoping for too much too soon. The doctors were planning on another MRI scan for Sherlock, now that he had passed the two week mark with only a twitching hand to show he was still in there, wanting to know whether that clever old brain of his was up to no good. John hoped with everything he had that it wasn't.<p>

John broke himself away from his thoughts, finding it much easier now to control the storm of worry that had overwhelmed him in the past, and stood, peering out through the blinds that covered the window to stare down at busy London beginning another day, everyone swarming to their places of work like bees to a hive, whilst tourists got caught up in the flurry like they were trapped in the honey of said bees. Everyone got on with their lives whilst John stayed there with Sherlock, trapped in this ever lengthening sentence of anticipation. And Sherlock remained oblivious to it all, and his precious London went on without him.

John was pulled from these thoughts by a timid tap on the door, and he turned just as Molly walked in; clashing clothes an illumination of colour in Sherlock's room. She gave John a smile, looking towards Sherlock in the bed awkwardly, not knowing how to respond.

"Molly, hi." John greeted her, clearing his throat.

"John, you wanted to see me?"

"Yeah, take a seat. I assume Greg told you all about Sherlock's case?" Molly sat down in the chair on the other side of Sherlock's bed from the one John had taken.

Molly nodded quickly, searching in her bag for something. "Yes, I've got the results back for you." She finally pulled free a file, and handed it to John over Sherlock, now no longer sweating and hot to the touch but as still and pale as before. "I know it's not really my job, but…..well, Greg said you asked for me to do it personally.

"Yes, I knew you could…" John muttered absentmindedly as he looked over the file. Yesterday at the interrogation he had asked Greg a favour: have Molly Hooper do an analysis on Mr Cubitt's jacket from the day of the crash, not a stranger. John knew Molly would appreciate helping in anyway, plus he didn't want to place the analysis in the hands of someone he didn't know and therefore couldn't trust; it seemed as though that was what may have happened with the CCTV, although Greg was still on the search for the culprit.

"It's very clever what you do with this, Molly," John said, looking up at her and smiling gratefully.

Molly smiled back, "It was simple, really." To her, yes: she had taken tiny flecks of skin particles from Mr Cubitt's jacket, matching them to the DNA of one Mr. Jeffery Straker. This was a lead John could not ignore: this Mr Straker could be the man who had grabbed David Cubitt out of the cab after the accident, and therefore be one of the conspirators of the attack against Sherlock. Another spring breeze blew through John carrying hope once again.

"But this is…this is very useful, very useful indeed, thank you, Molly, I'm sure he appreciates it…in his own way." John said, indicating Sherlock.

Molly blushed, shifting on her seat. "It was my pleasure; I want to make sure he gets out of this." She said it with such belief and affection that John stared at her for a moment in wonder, watching as she peered down at Sherlock and confidently took his hand, something he knew she would never have done years ago. He was strangely proud.

"We all do," he said, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "Listen, I better tell Mycroft that we have a potential lead in Mr Straker, but you're more than welcome to stay with him."

Molly seemed caught for a moment, but nodded at John that she would stay. He smiled, and quickly left the room.

* * *

><p>Sherlock came to somewhat abruptly, lying on the hard wooden floor of his Mind Palace. He sighed with relief that he had made it up the stairs, being too out of it at the time to remember actually achieving the act. He no longer felt like an icicle, thank goodness, nor did he feel overly hot. The fever must have died down, he assumed, feeling pleased at the thought but aggravated all the same by the fact he'd actually had a fever in the first place. He still felt incredibly weak though, and the nagging pain pulsed with each beat of his heart through his whole body, and he brought a hand to his pounding head, groaning.<p>

_"__I hope you can hear me, Sherlock, 'cause umm….I need to-to tell you something."_

Sherlock raised his head from his hand. Molly Hooper? What was…oh, for goodness sake, was John letting everyone have a cry by his bedside?

_"__We're all trying very hard to help you, and to find who did this to you, so just…don't think you're alone. I suppose you'd laugh at that if you were awake, but, well, I….."_

Sherlock frowned as Molly paused on the precipice of another sentence. She was wrong: he didn't laugh, he just sat there silent.

_"__I….Never mind. Well, I should go now; John's coming back very soon, so you won't be alone."_

The voice was gone. Molly was gone. "Molly," Sherlock whispered to himself inside his own head.

He sat there for a while; well he thought it was a while, trying to contain the pain and get his head around Molly's words when he heard another voice ringing out around him, John's voice. He smiled.

_"…__we have a potential lead in Mr Straker…"_

Straker. Straker… Sherlock knew he had heard that name before….if only he knew where…

As though his mind were listening to him, which it bloody better be seeing as it was_his_ Mind Palace; the door to his right suddenly creaked open slightly. Finally it seemed his mind was working with him, not against him. Getting to his feet was a wobbly affair, and he had to blink stars out of his vision before he could take staggered steps towards the door and through it.

Sherlock had to blink at the bright stark light that met his eyes in harsh greeting. When he had recovered from the visual shock he took in all he could see, and was surprised by himself. Before was the scene of the crash, frozen in time. Rain stopped mid-air, making the image appear almost like a grainy old film, and a heavy pressure was in the air, the room completely silent; all Sherlock could hear was his slightly accelerated breathing. He took a step forward, shoe grating against the concrete as he observed the crash. His cab was in the middle of the road and the incident was frozen so that the lorry was on full impact with the left side of his cab. The cab itself was balancing on both its right side wheels and Sherlock walked towards it through the rain, not getting wet at all. He walked around so he could see the left side of the cab, observing how much damage the impact had done to it and calculating how much this in turn would've done to his body.

It felt odd to be walking into his crash, but he needed to do this, especially now he finally could. He stopped to peer into the front of the cab, getting his first look at Mr Cubitt. The man had a hard look to him, and his face was scrunched up with the impact. Sherlock noticed that a piece of shrapnel had broken through the window and was now flying towards his face through a waterfall of broken glass. He didn't recognise the man, or if he had known him he'd deleted him. He couldn't get through to the back of the cab from the left, the lorry being in the way, so he circled round until he could peer into the back of the cab, and at himself. This was the oddest thing about this whole scene; it wasn't like staring at your reflection, because it wasn't him, not as he ever saw himself. This was completely different.

His hands were mid-way between his face and his torso, obviously on their way to protect his face. Sherlock's face itself was turned away from the collision, his eyes screwed up tight. Pieces of glass were glistening in front of him in the rain, and a piece of shrapnel from the front of the lorry was making impact with his forehead. Sherlock subconsciously reached up to touch his own forehead, seeing the sharp but of metal colliding with his Mind Palace self's head made him wince. That one stupid piece of shrapnel better not have damaged any of his brain cells. He winced again when he saw that the left side of the cab was completely dented in, and the sharp metal mixed with the plastic covering had turned into a sharp shard that was heading straight for his side. Sherlock turned away, surprised that he found this so unnerving; it wasn't like he hadn't seen himself injured before.

Sherlock moved around the back of the cab, intending to get nearer to the lorry to see if he knew who the driver was. As he walked round he spotted Straker on the pavement nearby, watching the accident with a cool expression on his face. Around him people were mid stride and their faces were twisted with shock and horror. But Straker was stood completely still, observing the crash as though it were one of the dullest things that one could observe. Sherlock once again turned away and stepped around a large piece of metal grill from the lorry and peered up into the driver's seat of the lorry cabin. He knew that face. Definitely knew it, but from where?

* * *

><p>"John!" John turned round in his seat next to Sherlock; Molly had left a while ago, to see Greg rushing through the door. The man looked accomplished, and John hoped this is what he thought it was.<p>

"Greg? Have you found him?"

The policeman nodded as he came to a stop by John, "Yeah, turns out the man had only just been recruited, went by the name of Philip Straker.

John's eyebrows shot up, "Straker…" he muttered.

Greg nodded again, "exactly, we're doing a DNA check but I'm pretty sure that Philip Straker is Jeffery Straker's son."

"Bloody hell," John whispered, "It's almost like a family affair."

"We have Phillip Straker in custody now, and we'll soon question him on what he knows. First I want to now how he got into Scotland Yard in the first place…." Greg sounded angry, hand running through his greying hair.

"You sure he wasn't in training for the police?" the suggestion sounded silly even to John's ears, but he had to ask it.

"Come on, John, that would seem too much of a coincidence, wouldn't it?"

John nodded resignedly; this case wasn't getting any easier. "I suppose."

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_Philip Straker is Jeffery Straker's son." _The words whispered to Sherlock from the door through which he had entered. He looked up then, committing the face of the lorry driver to memory before turning and heading out the door, away from his crash. Straker, there was that name again. He knew that he knew it, knew he'd heard it before, in a case perhaps?

Sherlock was once again standing on the landing, peering up the flights of stairs. A sudden bout of pain hit him and he doubled over groaning. His eyesight went blurry and he clung to the banister so hard his knuckled turned white. He needed to get to the next level, where he knew more information would be at hand, where his mind would be more awake.

Gritting his teeth he made the weary journey up the stairs, the stairs wavering in front of him. He was exhausted, but he had no choice whether he reached the next landing or not. He **had** to.

"Come on!" he growled as the landing came into sight. He could get there, rest for a moment, and then continue. He had to find out who Philip and Jeffery Straker were, **and **who that lorry driver was. He groaned again in frustration, grasping at the banister with both hand to pull himself up. He was so near…

* * *

><p>Early afternoon and John was yet again faced with another visitor for Sherlock: Mycroft Holmes. The older brother smiled his unsettling smile at John, handing him a Styrofoam cup of coffee. John accepted it gratefully as Mycroft sat down in the chair on the other side of Sherlock's bed.<p>

"So, what do you make of it?" John asked him.

Mycroft peered down at him, "likely the Strakers wanted revenge on my brother, probably for something he did while in his line of work, I shall look into it."

John nodded, "Lestrade said he would too,"

Mycroft tilted his head in understanding, sipping his coffee and screwing his face up in distaste at the cheap taste. "We have confirmed that the cab driver was in fact Mr David Cubitt, and that the pedestrian was Mr Jeffery Straker."

"But no luck on the lorry driver?" John asked.

Mycroft asked, "None so far, I'm afraid that the footage is rather dubious. Though I'm sure DI Lestrade will have Mr Cubitt and Mr Straker junior talking in no time."

John nodded, sighing, "Well, let's hope so."

Mycroft observed John for a moment before peering down at his comatose brother. Sherlock really did love being dramatic; his crash couldn't be simply an accident, could it? It had to have that element of surprise. Mycroft looked back up at John, "John, be assured I am doing all I can for my brother and that I have people out looking for Jeffrey Straker as I speak."

John looked down at Sherlock, looking wearier in that moment than he had since Sherlock first had a collision with the front of a lorry. Mycroft knew some sort of storm was going on inside the good doctor's head, but being Mycroft Holmes he had no words in order to reassure him that Sherlock would come out of this alive and well (and conscious). He'd never understood goldfish very well.

"Good," was all John said, downing his putrid coffee.

* * *

><p>Sherlock lay panting on the second landing, his whole body throbbing with pain. He had made it, which was one thing, now all he had to do was find the room to answer his questions. With bleary eyes he looked up towards the door that led off from the landing, and he frowned in thought. His mind had listened to him before when he needed answers about his crash, so why shouldn't it now?<p>

Forcing himself to solely think 'Straker' Sherlock raised himself onto one foot and used his energy to throw himself at the door, reaching out his hand to grab at the door handle. The door swung open and Sherlock let himself be dragged through until he knelt in the entrance. He looked up, and he saw exactly what he needed to see.

* * *

><p>All was quiet now in the late afternoon, rain occasionally beating against the window in a raging, rhythmic pattern that echoed in John's ears. He was far too tired.<p>

Mrs Hudson sat across from him in the other chair, gently arranging Sherlock's hair so that it sat as it normally did in an organised mess. She tutted, "It really could do with a wash, and look at his lips they're all cracked."

John looked up from where he had been leaning on his fist as his arm rested on the chair. He smiled at Mrs Hudson's concern, and reassured her that the nurses would take care of it and she need not worry so.

Mrs Hudson tutted again at that, "Like I'm not going to worry, John."

He smiled again and nodded. She stared at him, searching his face for something. "John," she murmured, getting up and coming around Sherlock's bed to place her hands on his shoulders. "Why don't you go home to rest? I can see you're exhausted, and I'll stay with him until visiting times end."

John looked up at her, and then at her thumb as it rubbed soothingly at his shoulder. Maybe he should, Sherlock would be fine in Mrs Hudson's care of course he would. And he needed to sleep, the rain clouds getting too overwhelming.

"Okay," he muttered, getting to his feet and pulling his coat on. He reached over to Sherlock and squeezed his shoulder, "see you tomorrow, mate."

Mrs Hudson looked to be on the verge of tears as she hugged him, ordering him to get rest before resuming her seat next to Sherlock.

Just before he left John heard Mrs Hudson tut and say, "Oh, I do wish it would stop raining."

John sighed to himself, taking one last glimpse at his sleeping friend before closing the door. "Me too." He whispered.

* * *

><p><strong>Ta Da! there it is, please tell what you think! (P.S. sorry if it seems a little dramatic I was watching Return of the King while watching this so...;) )<strong>

**btw the name 'Straker' comes from one of ACD's original stories so it is borrowed from there :)**

**please review etc, and...Happy Christmas/Holidays etc!**

**Happy Reading! TheBritishBourbon x**


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